


The King's Return

by turnedherbrain



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Arthurian, Canon Compliant, Legends, Merlin Memory Month, Modern Era, Mythology References, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-09
Updated: 2018-09-09
Packaged: 2019-07-05 02:44:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15854625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/turnedherbrain/pseuds/turnedherbrain
Summary: As the dusk falls and the rain fills the skies beyond Alderley, a local tale becomes re-awakened reality.





	The King's Return

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Merlin Memory Month – September 2018, Day 3, Path 1 (the prompt was an image of heavy rain falling on the ground).

It happened in The Wizard pub at Alderley Edge.

I’d come to seek shelter from the incessant rain that pounded the oaks in the forest and covered the Cheshire plain in driving sheets of hammering water. Having bought my pint, I found only one chair still unoccupied, but in a warm seat by the fireplace. The flames glowed a welcome and I took my seat thankfully, the moisture rising from my cast-off overcoat.

There was a man opposite me. No older than my father, perhaps, but with the careworn look of someone who has endured much in life yet still battles on. He saw me settle and raised his glass in greeting. ‘Wet out?’

I looked out through the misted window, at the streams of water snaking down the pane, and smiled wanly. ‘A little.’

‘Only fools and madmen would wander in this,’ he declared, then looked up as a figure swiftly passed us, abruptly opened the door and, framed in the hiss of the nightfall downpour, pulled up their hood and departed.

The door swung closed with a clanging finality.

‘And there goes such a one,’ murmured my fireside companion. ‘A man who endures an interminable wait.’

‘Excuse me... I’m not sure what you mean?’ I asked, an innocent newcomer.

‘Don’t you know the legend, then? Why do you think this pub’s called The Wizard?’ asked my companion, taking another large gulp of his drink as if to fortify himself. He regarded me with the look of someone who possesses much knowledge, and aims to impart it to the uneducated.

‘I’m afraid I don’t,’ I shrugged. From the look on his face, I knew that the man opposite would enlighten me, regardless.

‘That man – the one who left just now? He’s the wizard.’ He chanced to look at me directly, and saw my mouth agape: ‘Yes. Not everyone believes me, but those who do are certain of it.

‘He lives in the forest – in the cabin by the fallen oak. Built it himself by hand, no magic needed, stuffed the places between the stones with moss. The whole thing smells of earth and age.

‘He waits. He waits, and waits, and waits. Waits for the time when his king will wake from his slumbers. _‘He will come when England’s need is greatest.’_ That’s what they say.’

‘Well then: why not now?’ I tried to joke, but the face which looked back at me didn’t reflect my amusement. I decided to humour the tale-teller. He’d presumably been here since noon and sunk far too many pints of strong ale. But the voice that told the story did not quaver, and the tongue that pronounced the words did not slur. Instead, he regarded me solemnly, while the downpour turned invisible against the darkening sky.

‘So – the person we saw just now – that’s really...?’

‘Merlin.’ The man nodded his head sagely, unaware that I was gently ridiculing his assurance.

‘And he waits for...?’

‘Arthur. **_King_** Arthur. There’s him, and many of his knights, hidden in a cave right under the Edge that’s yonder. They sleep in the arms of enchantment.’ The man gestured through the fire, the flames licking at the logs and turning our faces flush with warmth.

If I could see beyond the fire, or through brick walls, I would have spotted a figure walking purposefully through the dull dusk, careless of the rain that cascaded about him. The figure reached the edge of the woods and disappeared on the path that dipped below the tree line and twisted down towards the wide, dark plain below.

‘So,’ I said, trying to summarise, looking at my almost-empty glass and wishing for it to be magically refilled. ‘If England needs him, really needs him – Arthur will re-awaken?’ My voice sounded disembodied, as if it was coming from someone else. The heat from the fire was too hot; the room was overfilled with woodsmoke and chatter. I needed to clear my head – clear it of folklore and a belief in wizards and ancient kings.

Yet the man opposite me grew more secure in his pronouncements and steadier in his assertions. ‘Maybe you don’t believe. But those of us who live hereabouts and have seen the wizard daily striding the Edge, or weaving magic at the entrance to the cave: we believe. We believe in a literal impossibility – that the king will rise; that the land will be protected once again by Arthur and his knights.’

The man grew quiet. The rain fell: large droplets that made circular ripples and disappeared into deep puddles. No-one but a madman would be out in this growing storm.

The chatter had subsided. I turned around in bewilderment, as the silence became absolute. Everybody stopped mid-movement and as one, the entire crowd turned to face the door, which had silently swung open, the persistent downfall splattering the porchway. A single bulb lit the entrance and the rain appeared to diffuse in the light.

One second. Two. Three. Four seconds.

And a figure appeared out of the dark, flanked by others in the same garb. They entered without looking around them, as if this was their castle and we the guards. At the rear of the pack, I saw the wizard again. He cast off his cloak, which was drenched with droplets but somehow not soaked through. His eyes… his eyes held the history of ages.

The man he followed strode through the room and stopped at the fireplace.

Still silence. Not a breath, nor any evidence that we were all still alive.

My companion struggled to his feet, vacated his chair and, astonished mouth open, gestured for the newcomer to take a seat. The man, his blonde hair gleaming wet, smiled absently and sank down, his retinue immediately converging on the spot and forming a semi-circle around him.

Still no-one spoke.

I nodded to the wizard, who was standing outside the protective encircling, near the open door. I tried to say ‘would you like my seat?’ but no words formed on my tongue. The sorcerer inclined his head in my direction, understanding my intent but declining my unspoken offer. There was no doubt this limited movement; this silence, was being magically wrought by him.

‘Merlin,’ called the king’s voice commandingly from within his close circle.

‘Sire.’ The mage approached, instantly at hand.

‘We need to move on.’

‘Don’t you want to rest here for longer?’ questioned Merlin, seeming to grow less like an ancient, bowed figure and more like a confident advisor, with every passing moment.

‘No. I’ve had _centuries_ of rest,’ the king looked up at his protector, and smiled weakly. Merlin’s return expression was a strange mixture of happiness and concern. Had I known Merlin better – had I known him at all – I would have realised it was a rare moment of giving lease to his emotion: the remainder was kept in a vault of his own making.

The king continued, unconcerned that it was only the two of them conversing, while the brimful pub was supernaturally silent and still. ‘These people... do they know what they see?’

‘Some, sire. Those who believe.’

‘Then we should allow the believers to remember us.’

‘Yes, sire.’ affirmed Merlin.

The door gaped open once again, and the rain suddenly stopped falling, and the night grew quieter still. Four seconds, three, two, one.

They were gone.

The man who had so readily vacated his seat for the king now stood before me once again, his face flushed, his eyes bright; his entire expression one of indescribable joy. He sat down by my side, gripping both my shoulders with unbounded excitement. ‘So, stranger. NOW do you believe?’

‘I believe,’ I said, staring out of the doorway before us, at the now-unclouded sky and the stars scattered across the heavens. _Yes, I believe._ ‘He will come when England’s need is greatest,’ I murmured to no-one but myself, hearing the semi-audible chorus of the same words coming from a hundred other mouths around me.

...

In the morning, after a scant night of sleep, I wrote down this wondrous story as if it was still a dream. It’s the story I’m telling you right now.

It’s a story about a mythical king, brought back to the world.

It’s a story about the man – the mage – who waited for centuries, and now walks by his side once again.

 ** _Now_** do you believe? The king has returned.

**Author's Note:**

> There really is a pub at Alderley Edge in Cheshire, UK called The Wizard (I went there for my birthday last year :)). A local legend says that Arthur and his knights lie in an enchanted sleep, in a cavern guarded by Merlin. The National Trust owns the woods around there, and [their website describes this legend.](https://www.nationaltrust.org.uk/alderley-edge-and-cheshire-countryside/features/the-legend-of-alderley-edge)


End file.
